Save You
by kurt couper
Summary: I wanna save you, he says quietly, his words mumbled against her wrist. His eyes glance at his feet before he meets hers again. But I need you to save me too. Spawn References to Cutting and Drugs COMPLETE.


**A/N: **I was in a "dark" mood so i decided in a rather depressing story. It's not, like, horrible or anything. Just enough to satisfy.

Basics: Buffy died and isn't comming back. Spike now lives with Dawn. No one else lives with them. Warning for cutting and drug references.

* * *

He secretly watches her from the outside of her doorway. He dare not step a foot in her room, though. It was against their unspeakable rules. They recognized them and understood them and respected them, but they never actually voiced them. It_ was_ against the rules, after all. He wouldn't bother her in the private sanctuary of her own room and she wouldn't bother him. They could do whatever they wanted in their own rooms, without the other bothering them.

It just seemed simpler that way.

Everything had transpired into simpler things. All they needed was the basics to survive. He provided the money to pay the bills and she would supply the necessities like shampoo, food, and blood. Neither asked how they got the money or the items; it was best they didn't know. And it wasn't like they needed much. Things have broken down and it wasn't like they were complicated.

Spike watched over Dawn. And Dawn tried to survive.

It was their basic life plan.

Too bad it was harder than it sounded.

But it wasn't as if she would actually go down into the basement where Spike now resided. She only went to his makeshift room to complete the weekly chore of laundry. But Spike hid his liquor and occasional drug paraphernaliaaway well, so she didn't stumble upon it. But he was pretty sure she knew about the sips and the hits and his cloudy eyes. She wasn't incompetent, after all.

And he wasn't completely oblivious to her sudden obsessions for knives or razors or bandages or the constant long-sleeved shirts.

He keeps his eye on her from time to time. Because _someone_ has to watch over her. Everyone let this burden of another human being rest on his shoulders and he didn't know how to handle it.

Did he tell her that she was being pathetic and to get on with her life?

Or that it was okay to grieve but it would get better soon?

That life was just butterflies and puppies and bloody rainbows?

But he didn't believe in any of those things. Nothing was going to get better soon. And she might never get on with her life. And life was certainly not made out of puppies.

So he just let her do what she wants. Figured that she could just heal on her own.

She was a smart girl.

What was that bloody saying? Wounds will heal, but the scar remains

He just wishes that she doesn't have too many scars before it's all over with.

His eyes find their way to her lithe figure on the bed. She's biting her lips as she grips the dagger more forcefully in her fingers. She brings it to her marred skin and glances at it with her dull green eyes.

Her eyes have been looking to dead lately. _Like his_.

She takes the blade and swipes it across her arm in one quick movement as if she's done this hundreds of times. _But he knew she has_. The blood pools to the surface and it clashes against her pale skin.

The blood stays on her skin for a couple of minutes before she wipes it off. The red stains her skin. But it seems as that fact doesn't bother her because her eyes flutter behind her heavy eyelids. And she falls. Her head hits her floor with a thud.

She passed out.

He decided that the rules did not apply when someone was unconscious and stepped through their "boundaries". Her room smelled of blood and cigarettes. And not his brand. Taking the small Dawn in his arms, he placed her on the dirty bed. Her arm flung out from her body which exposed all of her self-inflicted wounds.

He thought it was best to inspect the damage.

There seemed to be millions of long, wide cuts scattered around her arm. A couple of burn marks and bruises mingled with the wounds to make a beautiful canvas.

He shoves his eyes away with disgust.

This was all his fault.

He takes her arm and places it against her body and walks downstairs into his own haven. The thought that he had done this to Dawn, made him feel dirty. Grabbing a fresh bottle of vodka, he tore the top of and gulped it down. Loving the way it burned down his throat. It made him feel. And it made him scorch as if he was living his final life in hell. As if he was paying for the plethora of sins that he's committed. But for the biggest one of them all:

For letting his angel fall.

It only takes three bottles for him to pass out against the coldness that is the floor. He welcomes the darkness; craves it to stop his thoughts. Feeling like a failure made his dead heart clenched.

8888

She watches him as his motions become slurred and drawn out. He's so beautiful when he's drunk. His eyes become gray and his smiles become watery and she knows that he isn't sound and mind. And that thought is quite comforting. Because she never was truly there-not anymore. It's nice to know that she wasn't the only one suffering.

Nice to know that other people couldn't feel either.

But they didn't talk about it. They didn't sit around the dinner table with meatloaf and mashed potatoes and discuss why they felt so empty. So numb. It was just granted that both of them felt that way. So speech wasn't needed.

Lately she found that talking was overrated. Actions were her thing.

And, boy, was she good with them.

His body collapse and she knows that he's done. He's drunk himself to exhaustion; filled his cup to the brim. He was always over doing himself like that. Always went _too_ far. Her cold body cringes when she thinks of the times when she found him-overdosed on heroin-laying on the floor.

Motionless.

It reminded her of her dead sister who laid six feet under the ground.

That's when she realized all that she could lose. It's also when she took a razor to her skin and made pretty pictures that took the pain away.

His eyes roll back into his head and it's the first time in months that she's seen him at least somewhat complete. But what was she to do?He was her protector. Savior. Knife in shinning armor. He'd make her bleed real good. Forever scars and forever bliss.

But she wasn't the only one that was hurting. She knew that. Understood it. But it just didn't connect to her brain. It didn't quite register that he might have wanted to be helped also.

Everyone wants someone to care for them and bring them out from the fiery, yet cold, depths of a personal hell. And into the light.

Or at least moonlight for him.

She decides to let him rest on the floor. She had to do the laundry anyway. Blood soaked clothing wasn't really attractive. And was too suspicious. Loading the dark colors, which was all they both owned anyway, into the washing machine, she placed a cup of detergent in it and started it.

A sudden hand grasped her own and it startled her. The hand had enough force to spin her around and straight into her disrupter.

Her saint.

Her vampire.

Her lost soul.

His eyes looked painful and she could see his throbbing hangover start to form. He looked so vulnerable and small.

Why did it take her so long to notice?

She used to be good at noticing things. Had those wandering, big eyes and what not. She could see people falling in love, Buffy lying. Her mother crying. But then her mother died and her sister died and there was no reason in caring to notice anymore. So she started to notice herself and became selfish in her ways.

Knowing that she failed Spike...well that hit her hard. It made her want to scramble upstairs and find something sharp. And never let it go.

"I'm sorry I woke you," she whispered with downcast eyes.

It was just too difficult to look at him. Because she was him and he was her and it was all really the same. They were both dealing from the same moment in time.

The day her sister...jumped.

They were the same people-just in two different bodies. And with different coping methods.

That didn't really seem to work.

Her brain was reeling over his appearance, so she didn't even realize that sleeves did not cover her arms; she was wearing a tank top. His finger tips found their way to her dark scars. They traced with light touches.

She didn't know what to do. Say. Think.

"No, nibblet. _I'm_ sorry," he says, his voice sounding tired and truly apologetic.

He looks so worn out and tired. And old. His eyes were lifeless and even his bleached hair lost its sheen. He had stopped dying his hair, so his roots were quite long. She didn't have the heart to tell him about it though.

She didn't really have a heart anymore, it seemed. And she never really told him anything anyway.

So it all worked out.

He brings her thin, sliced arm up to his cold lips and placed a small kiss on the new wound. She lets out a small whimper. And she looks up, with caution, to his face.

Their eyes meet for the first time since Buffy..._died_. And emotions start to urge through their dead veins.

Understanding. Compassion. Regret. Loss. Survival. Hatred. Sadness.

Love.

The emotions burns their way throughout Dawn's and Spike's body and they left a trail of ash.

He feels like he's melting. As if his ice has met his sun and everything solid is dissolving and thawing away. And he's left with his shattered heart and a few bad memories.

She feels as if she's boiling. All under her skin. As if she can finally feel and it's everything is hitting her. All at once. It's like someone turned on the guilt switch in her brain.

She felt wrong. And dirty.

Seeing the hurt reflect in her eyes, he gave her a small smile.

She was so far gone. Lost in a world of pain and self-hatred and death.

And she had no one. But herself and him.

He took his thin lips and placed a small, gentle kiss on her wrist which held the biggest scar of them all.

"I wanna save you," he says quietly, his words mumbled against her wrist. He tucks a strand of loose hair behind her ear.

Something breaks inside of her and it takes all of her will not to cry. She hasn't cried since her mother died. So many horrible months ago.

"I do," he croaks, his words filled with so much emotion. His eyes glance at his feet before he meets hers again. "But I need you to save me too."


End file.
